


take away this lonely man, soon he will be gone

by bartonmised



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 09:08:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bartonmised/pseuds/bartonmised
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two thousand, three hundred and fourty two days of James Bond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take away this lonely man, soon he will be gone

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta-ed. Inspired by (500) Days of Summer. Title of fic from Vagabond by Wolfmother.

Day one, and it takes all his courage to get over the intimidation that the agent he was assigned to imposed.

("I'm your new Quartermaster."

"You must be joking.")

He goes back to headquarters and fills his newly bought mug with a cup of steaming hot Earl Grey to clear his senses, and his head.

Day five and he thinks that maybe this agent isn’t as hard to handle as his rumored reputation after all. It just takes communication and cooperation, you know, the standard skills of teamwork that they were taught when he was in the compulsory MI6 training class.

Day eighteen and he mentally takes back his statement.

007 was assigned to give him a brain aneurysm the size of the crater he just created in Egypt.

(“Motherfucker!” he hisses over the comm.

“Language,” 007 retorts “Or else I’ll shove a bar of Egyptian soap into your mouth”.

“Well seeing as how you blew up the damned market, I don’t know where you’ll get it.”

“Is that a challenge?”

He groans.)

Day fifty five and it’s only an infatuation, he tells himself. The man drizzles charm like confetti.

It’ll pass. It always does. He’ll just have to wait it out.

Day seventy four, and he’s alone in his flat, drunk on cheap liquor store vodka. He never was one for alcohol, but it served as a quick way for amnesia to set in - trying to forget the way 007’s hand had lingered a moment too long on his skin when he swept by Q branch to return a piece of, as usual, equipment that was damaged beyond repair

(“Do you take extra effort to break my equipment?” he sighs, exasperated.

“It’s fun to see more spots appear on your complexion, darling,” 007 strokes his cheek and leaves the room.)

Day ninety nine, and 007’s mouth is bruising, passionate and hungry for a human touch after an adrenaline filled mission where he took out six targets, including one kid. He tastes the whiskey on his tongue, and breaks the kiss before 007’s fingers breached through to the skin of his hips.

At three am that night, he feels sick at the thought that he could have took advantage of 007, and hates himself even more.

Day one hundred and one, and he comes with a shout, shaking uncontrollably from the force and clenching his thighs firmly around 007’s waist as he follows suit.

(“I hate you.” He mutters into the moonlit room moments after his heart rate finally settles down.

“No you don’t,” and 007 leans in for round two.)

Day one hundred and three, and he walks out of the conference room with a slight limp and a ruined cardigan.

At least his salary was high enough for him to make frequent shopping trips.

Day one hundred and eighty seven, and 007 never stays the night. The next time he sees him after opening his eyes is always at headquarters, his bite marks hidden by the immaculately sinful suits he wears.

Day two hundred and thirty six, and they’re still fucking around like horny teenagers, and the thing they did still hasn’t stopped in passion, desperation or intensity.

He’s just waiting for 007 to grow weary of him now.

Day two hundred and ninety eight, and when he wakes up, it’s to the softened face of a sleeping agent.

He falls back to sleep again with a grin on his face, until the smell of eggs and Earl Grey waft into his room a couple of hours later.

Day three hundred and one, and there’s a spare toothbrush and razor in his bathroom.

Day three hundred and twelve, and there’s two dry cleaned suits in his closet.

Day three hundred and sixty two, and a trainee bursts into his office while he has his hand down Bond’s pants.

By lunchtime, the entire MI6 knew. M was not pleased.

(“Well it was inevitable…” Bond smirked as they walked out of M’s office.

He groaned at the realization. “You left the door unlocked on purpose. You insufferable bastard.”

Bond’s only response was a smirk before pulling him in for a kiss in the middle of the hallway.

Well, at least they didn’t have to hide in closets anymore. He always hated the bruises left by shelves and brooms instead of Bond’s fingers.)

Day four hundred and sixty four, and it’s their one year anniversary. 

"I love you," he whispers softly, his hand tracing the sleeping mans scars on his chest, finger lingering on the puckered bullet hole on his right torso. 

He knew Bond probably didn’t reciprocate these sappy emotions; the man’s closed himself off ever since “fucking Venice”.

He’ll settle for what he’s got. It’s the best thing he’s ever had, anyways.

Day four hundred and sixty seven, and they're laying side by side after their usual post borderline suicidal mission fuck. 

"I love you too," Bond says suddenly. He looks up in surprise, sees the truth in the words in those deep blue eyes, and then proceeds to give his lover one of the top three best nights of his life.

Day five hundred and thirty three and Bond's agent status is changed to MIA.

Day five hundred and thirty seven, and he hasn't slept in four days, searching, searching everywhere, every country, hacking every damned security feed that the bastard could possibly show up in. No leads, not a shred of a clue as to where Bond might have been taken to. He’s running his branch to the ground, working overtime and reusing old packets of tea.

Day five hundred and forty two, and his eyes are bloodshot. He’s found nothing - no word from his contacts, not a signal from the organization they were tracking prior to the agent’s disappearance.

Day five hundred and seventy three, and M tells him it’s over – MI6 has other missions to cover. They’re closing the file, the agent is lost. He’s to relocate his efforts to become, again, a valuable resource to the British secret service.

He rips out his keyboard and smashes it onto the floor in frustration, letting out a shuddering breath.

Day five hundred and seventy four, and there’s a new keyboard, the remnants of the old one discarded in the rubbish bin next to his desk.

He’s assigned a new mission that afternoon. Hacking into a group of amateur cyber terrorists network. 

Mindless work.

Day six hundred and five, and he’s tired, his bones are aching, his back is killing him. He turns on the light to his freezing flat, and there he is, sprawled on the couch, multiple wounds on his body and a charred suit.

He calmly calls headquarters and alerts them of Bond’s location, ordering for the medical team to be on standby for the injured agent.

He then promptly passes out on his bed.

Day six hundred and fifteen, and he tells Bond that he can’t do this anymore, he can’t. It’s physically exhausting to wonder whether or not he’s alive or dead in a ditch somewhere across the world. So unless Bond gets his act together and actually becomes afraid of death, then he can’t do this anymore, he won’t invest in this anymore than he has.

He walks out of medical, and his eyes are surely not glistening.

Day six hundred and sixteen, and Bond’s in his flat. He’s sorry, but he can’t promise he won’t die, can’t promise him that he’ll always come back – no one can give him the definitive answer, ever. It’s the nature of his job, this life. He should understand.

But he’ll try. He’ll do his best.

“For queen and country?”

“For queen and country.” Bond replies wryly, and kisses the top of his head.

Day two thousand, three hundred and forty six, and he lays a single blood red rose on his lovers chest. He walks away without saying goodbye, since 007 does not deserve that sentiment.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, did I invoke any feels? I tried. Writing is hard, so incredibly fucking hard, and I'm not a ficcer - I'm usually the reader. But I couldn't leave this one to anyone else to write. So, as always, any grammar/spelling/British mistakes - comment below, let me know.


End file.
